


grey would be the color if i had a heart

by provocation



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Background ensemble with lots of Stubbs and Bernard scenes but the focus is on the lesbians!!!, F/F, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 22:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20104705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Do they dream?A curious subordinate will ask, much later. Elsie’s hair won’t have grown much longer but she will be an entirely different woman, shattered and remade in the time passed.In her story, she said they dreamed. Do we make them dream?And Elsie will just fix them with a dismissive look. Whoever said that there are no stupid questions clearly never met the underlings who work here.What the fuck would be the point of that? Dreams are mainly memories. Can you imagine how fucked we'd be if these poor assholes ever remembered what the guests do to them?





	grey would be the color if i had a heart

**Author's Note:**

> This has been kicking around in my mind since I first watched that kiss in the show's premiere, and the idea only intensified as we learned more about Elsie and Clementine. What can I say, I love being queer-baited!!! This is canon compliant but takes place before the first season, and if there's any anachronisms or mistakes (or typos...) please let me know!
> 
> This story was heavily influenced by movepastthefeeling's [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10028744), although I started writing this one before I read it. If you haven't read that one yet, go check it out! I was also inspired by multiple discussions with [Adrian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianicsea/pseuds/adrianicsea) and [Ren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfeatherbed) (thank you for letting me scream about this show!), as well as [this piano cover of Truman Sleeps](https://open.spotify.com/track/7aoyXM2WpZ1kxo3VN7oudE?si=Y7n2WGyPRRmdsDZ6t5wgjQ), [this picture of Shannon Woodward](http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Shannon+Woodward+Premiere+HBO+Westworld+Red+iPx8515N3m6l.jpg), and Adrian's [host!Logan fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487323) which really informed my depiction of the park.
> 
> Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoy!

The host sits naked before them, blank and dormant. She is awake but inactive, and the complete lack of motion is alarming. Her chest isn’t even rising and falling as she breathes— not that Elsie is looking at her chest. Technically this check-up could be carried out silently. The host’s diagnostics are on the tablet in her hands, and Elsie has no need to wake her; but her still body and closed eyes give the impression of a corpse. It’s beyond creepy.

“Bring yourself online, please,” Elsie says, and then curses under her breath; she isn’t supposed to say _ please_. Thankfully no other techs are in the room to point out her mistake and the host doesn’t seem to notice. She opens her cloudy blue eyes and bats her lashes at Elsie, because of course she does. This one works at the Mariposa in Sweetwater, one of the more vanilla brothels but she still sees her fair share of abuse. None of that is visible on her perfect body, which, again, Elsie is _ not _ looking at. She returns to the script, careful not to add in any other polite interjections. “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in a dream,” the host says.

“That’s right,” Elsie hums. The host blinks again; on a human that would be normal, but for a dormant host it’s a strange anomaly. “Is something wrong with your eyes?”

“No,” the host says right away, and she doesn’t blink again. For a moment that tilts the earth Elsie is worried that the host just told her a lie, but then she admits, “I am so scared. I’m trying not to cry.”

Guilt floods through Elsie and she quickly tells the host, “Don’t be scared.” Instantly, the host’s face goes neutral; she loses tension in her forehead that Elsie hadn’t even noticed. Her guilt worsens; she didn’t mean for that to be an order, but of course there’s no point in offering the hosts comfort when she can instantly erase their fear. “Is this dream a nightmare?”

“Yes,” replies the host. She hasn’t blinked yet.

“You’re in no danger here,” Elsie tells her. There is no reaction. “Do you remember what happened before you fell asleep?”

An infinitesimal pause, before: “Yes.”

Elsie can see the record of the memory on the tablet. Guests are allowed to take whatever action they wish with the hosts, but Elsie can’t help but feel bad for hosts like this one who get brutalized more than any others. With a swipe she deletes the painful memory. “Do you remember a newcomer with… um, with a knife?”

“No,” the host says, slightly confused. 

Elsie sighs, relieved that the mental trauma disappeared as easily as the physical. The host only looks more confused at the sigh, and Elsie coughs. Not for the first time, she wishes they were allowed to put the hosts in hospital gowns or something. “Good. Can you tell me about yourself?”

“I’m Clementine Pennyfeather,” the host recites. Elsie struggles not to roll her eyes; Sizemore really gets away with some ridiculous names. “I work for Maeve at the Mariposa. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

That stops Elsie short. She stares at Clementine, confused. “What?”

“If not, you should stop by sometime,” Clementine says. She still hasn’t blinked, but now she winks. Elsie looks down at the tablet, completely lost. “I like all the newcomers, but it’s always nice to see a pretty face—”

“Stop,” Elsie nearly yells, trying hard not to flush. She’s even more grateful now that no one else is here to witness this. “Analysis; why are you…” She struggles with phrasing, and Clementine waits obediently. Her patience makes Elsie’s blush worse, even though the caesura is just a host waiting for the end of a command. “Why are you trying to get me to come to the Mariposa?”

“Times have been tough,” Clementine starts another one of Lee’s hamfisted monologues. Her voice is as gentle as her name and face. “These days we need all the business we can get, and there aren’t as many people coming through town. All the money I make goes to support my family—”

“No,” Elsie interrupts, unwilling to hear about Clementine’s tragic backstory and family. “I meant, me. Why are you… have you ever asked anyone else in your dreams to come to the Mariposa?”

Clementine scans her memories from past and current builds; Elsie watches the process run on the tablet. Finally she says, “No.”

Elsie frowns. “So why me?”

“Like I said,” Clementine begins, blue eyes twinkling. “It’s always nice to see a pretty face.”

The invitation arrives in her inbox before noon on a Tuesday. Elsie is halfway through her third espresso of the morning; technically her eighth of the day since she only slept in fits and starts last night. When she reads the email, she chokes on her coffee.

Once she’s recovered, Elsie rereads the email three times, brain running every possibility. Maybe it’s a phishing scam; except no, there’s Charlotte Hale’s virtual signature right at the bottom. Maybe it’s a fluke; but no, there’s her name right at the top. And in the body, the invitation is clear and permanent in sans serif. Répondez s'il vous plaît to a celebration of yet another wonderful fiscal year. A celebration held _ in the park._

It’s not like she’s never been in the park before. Bernard visits it almost every day, although he’s never gone for pleasure. Elsie has also never gone for pleasure, on account of the fact that she has bills to pay. Even with the generous discount for staff, there is no way in hell she could ever afford to drop _ any _ percentage of forty thousand dollars on just one day.

She also suspects she wouldn’t like it— except, suspicion isn’t the right word. She hopes she wouldn’t like it. Elsie’s only been on this rotation for a few months and in that time she hasn’t had to interact with many guests, but she has seen firsthand the nightmarish damage that the so-called newcomers choose to inflict. And now she has the chance to enter the park for leisure, and just the thought is making breathing difficult.

Her office is technically just an antechamber to Bernard’s, with glass walls just like every other room in Delos’ fortress. For once Bernard is actually in said office instead of wandering the park on one of Ford’s flights of whimsy or pretending not to flirt with Theresa. 

When Elsie regains her bearings and clears her throat of coffee, she enters the office without knocking. “Bernard, did you get this email too?” she stammers, regretting the question as soon as she’s spoken. Of course he did. If his assistant is invited, he must be invited too.

Bernard raises an eyebrow— it makes him look like Spock. He runs his hands across the keyboard, and then blinks at the screen. Elsie has no idea how he works the hours he does; he’s always here before she is in the mornings, and she’s never seen him actually take a breather for anything other than the rare personal call. “From the Board?” It’s obvious rhetoric but Elsie nods anyway. “Yes. Is this your first invitation to visit the park?”

Elsie nods again, even though she suspects Bernard probably knows the answer and is just being polite. “I wouldn’t…” Judgement seeps into her tone, and Bernard’s eyebrow shoots up again. “It’s not for me.”

“Understandable,” Bernard returns the nod, and Elsie is grateful until he continues. “Given that you’re paid to work on the hosts’ brains, it makes sense to avoid spending your money to talk to them on your weekends. You don’t have to worry; the parties are usually easier.”

Elsie bites her tongue instead of pointing out that she didn’t say she was worried. For a socially inept robotics nerd, Bernard sure has a gift for reading people; just not for communicating with them. “Easier?”

“There won’t be many hosts there, and the ones that get selected for those events are always docile. Although if I’m being honest, sometimes I’d rather talk to the hosts than to Ms. Hale.”

It must be a joke, but Bernard’s gaze is so serious and sincere that Elsie doesn’t know if she should laugh. “Right. So… you think I should go?”

“Do you want to go?”

“Could be fun,” Elsie says, startling herself. She tries to think of what she could possibly wear and Bernard nods silently, simultaneously unbothered by Elsie’s internal dilemmas and uncomfortable at the dwindling conversation. Sheepishly she closes the door to his office, to leave him to his work. She fires off a quick text to Stubbs.

**new conspiracy theory: bernard is a vulcan.**

**I believe that**, Ashley replies immediately.

**thank u for ur support.** **  
** **btw were u invited to the year-end party?**

Her phone rings, interrupting the fourth (ninth) espresso she’s brewing. An intern from Diagnostics glances over at the noise, and Elsie tries to seem composed and wise instead of a panicking insomniac well out of her depth. She picks up and Ashley speaks before she can greet him. “What year-end party?”

“So no?” Elsie frowns, torn between pride at being invited to an exclusive party and panic that she’ll have to go alone. “Fuck. I just got an email from Charlotte Hale personally inviting me.”

“Nice,” he whistles. Elsie rolls her eyes.

“Not my type. And I think it was probably an automated email.” She drums her fingers against the coffee machine to the rhythm of a stolen piano song. “Would you come with me?”

“You’re not _ my _type,” Ashley laughs. He must have the day off; she tries to remember if she’s ever heard him laugh on the job and comes up short. “Do you even get a plus one?”

“I think I’m Bernard’s plus one,” she mumbles.

“You mean Spock.” The line goes silent for a second, and Elsie moves her phone away to check that he didn’t hang up before he finally says, “Even if you can bring someone, I don’t think I want to spend an evening kissing the Board’s ass. Does it say what hosts they’re using?”

“No.” Elsie pauses. “It’s in the park, though.”

“Ugh, I’ll probably have to work it,” Ashley gripes. “Why the hell do they own this multibillion-dollar building if nobody wants to spend any time in it? And why the _ fuck _ would anyone want to go party in Westworld when we already know every damn thing about the place?”

Elsie thinks of a pretty face. “Could be fun.”

Elsie has to enter the park four days before the party, when someone from QA comes to harass her right as she’s about to head out for the night. They look as exhausted as Elsie feels, but it’s hard to be sympathetic. She almost made it out the door; she thinks longingly of the bottle of melatonin in her cupboard and the book she’s been trying to finish for _ weeks._ “What?”

“We have a problem,” the aggrieved technician tells her. At this point Elsie thinks ‘we have a problem’ could practically be QA’s catchphrase; the _ problem _ is that their problems range from Teddy using the wrong adjective for Dolores’ hair to a host accidentally breaking their loop. Elsie hopes it’s one of the more severe problems; if it’s something that someone else in Behaviour could have handled, she’s going to substitute wine for melatonin tonight. “It’s one of the hosts at the Mariposa.”

Elsie is proud of herself for keeping a neutral face. “Which one?”

“Clementine. You talked to her last, so they want you to go deal with this.”

Unpleasant memories of a sadist with a knife rise up, and Elsie frowns. “What happened?”

Fortunately this time, no guest took advantage of Clementine— at least, not any more than they always do. Unfortunately, a prospective customer had asked Clementine to ride out of town with him so that he could have his way with her on top of a mountain, apparently fulfilling some teenage fantasy. 

Clementine isn’t supposed to leave the Mariposa so she had shown reluctance at the idea, but the guest offered to pay thrice the fee— and more importantly, it’s what he wanted so she has to fulfil his request. Unbeknownst to both of them, Clementine leaving the Mariposa triggered something awry in her programming.

Elsie finds her standing still in a field, thankfully wearing clothes this time. There’s no sign of the guest or the horse they rode in on, and for an inexplicable instant Elsie feels resentment towards the man who left her alone like this. She remembers the fear on Clementine’s face; at the sound of her approach, the host turns and that same fear is there.

“Hi,” Elsie says stupidly. Clementine’s arms are folded tightly around her frame, and her posture does not ease at the sight of Elsie. “Um. Do you know where you are?”

This should be an easy answer, considering Clementine wasn’t blindfolded or anything as she was brought— and then abandoned— here. They’re in a field not too far from the town; the Abernathy farm is just up the hill. Clementine stares down at her, shivering in her dress and stockings. She’s got a good seven inches on Elsie. “No,” she says, sounding as terrified as she looks.

Remembering what happened last time she forced Clementine not to be scared, Elsie pauses before speaking. “You’re not far from the town. The saloon’s back that way,” she points. “Do you remember how you got here?”

“Yes,” Clementine says, still shaking. There is a gentle evening breeze, but it isn’t cold enough to warrant the shivering. “One of the newcomers wanted to have me for the night, but he wanted to go outside. I’ve never done it outside before.” 

Even scared out of her wits like this, there’s a lascivious air to everything Clementine says. Elsie reminds herself that this host was literally built to seduce anyone and everyone, and tries not to fall victim to the girlish, suggestive tone. “So, he brought you out here… and what happened?”

“I started screaming,” Clementine says. It’s almost an understatement; based on her record of what happened and the guest’s terrified report, she had begun to cry the second they left the dirt road. The guest helped her dismount to try to calm her down, but as soon as she got off the horse she let out a scream like an air siren.

Elsie’s stomach twists. “Why?”

“It’s the grass.” Clementine sounds pitiful, like even admitting the existence of the grass is terrifying. “I don’t like how it touches my ankles, I can’t— and the air isn’t right, there’s too much wind, and I… please, you have to get me back to the Mariposa, _ please!” _

Before Elsie can decide whether she should order Clementine into neutrality the host lunges towards her. Elsie’s arms jerk forward uselessly but Clementine is only pulling Elsie into a desperate hug, clinging to her like a life raft in the ocean.

Elsie freezes. They’re alone in the field, although QA is probably watching somewhere with raised eyebrows. But right now nobody else is around, and so it’s the easiest thing in the world to settle her arms around Clementine’s waist. 

“You aren’t in any danger,” she whispers, instead of just ordering the host to calm down. Clementine sags against her, relief coursing through her limbs as she pulls Elsie even closer. Elsie can’t remember the last time she was held like this by a human. “Soon this will feel like a distant dream. Until then…”

But she can’t bring herself to continue. Clementine’s head leans against hers, and she _ knows _ that it’s just a robot but she feels too real to push away. Her hair smells real, like bar soap and some sweet fruit. Elsie shivers too.

“Clementine,” she starts, uncertainly. “Do you ever leave the Mariposa?”

“Of course,” Clementine answers, breath warm against Elsie’s ear. A bolt of something courses through Elsie at the feeling, and she forces herself to remember that this isn’t real. That breath isn’t real carbon dioxide, it’s just recycled air pumped out by a machine. These words aren’t a real confession, they’re just the result of thousands of hours of Sizemore and his team’s work. “I go home every now and then to my family.”

Elsie forces herself to pull away, and she finds Clementine watching her intently. “Analysis. When was the last time you saw your family?”

Clementine’s expression clouds over, and her answer is uncertain. “I don’t know.”

Elsie reaches into her pocket for her tablet, opening Clementine’s synapses on the screen so that she can parse that answer. It looks like Clementine believes that she has a family she goes to visit in the desert. But her programming prevents her from leaving the Mariposa so even if the family really existed, she would never be able to actually go see them. The contradiction is heartbreaking, and it makes Elsie feel glad that Clementine is unaware of her trapped existence.

Hiding underneath that relief is the same guilt from before, but Elsie can’t deal with that right now. She has to wrap this up, so she tucks the tablet away. Clementine is staring at her with undisguised interest, which is strange because there’s nothing weird about Elsie’s outfit. Even if she was in her real clothes Clementine wouldn’t be able to process the sight, but tonight she made the effort to wear a vest and pants in case any guests were roaming around and saw her.

She fights the urge to ask Clementine why she’s staring, instead asking, “Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?”

“No,” Clementine says easily, still in analysis mode.

“Continue,” Elsie remembers to say. Clementine blinks once, switching back to character mode; Elsie’s heart is beating so fast it might beat right out of her chest. She steps forward, lying to herself that it’s because she’s cold. “Can you tell me about yourself?”

“I’m Clementine Pennyfeather,” Clementine says, quieter than usual. “I work for Maeve at the Mariposa in town.” She raises her hand, pointing in the direction Elsie had shown her.

“That’s right,” Elsie says. She hardly breathes, waiting eagerly for more— but Clementine just lowers her hand slowly, not adding anything else. This time, there’s no invite to swing by the saloon sometime. “Do you… god, this is a stupid question. Do you… remember me?”

“Yes,” Clementine answers instantly. She smiles, soft and secret, as Elsie’s stomach does flips.

“Jesus. Fuck. Okay, how… how do you…” She raises her eyes to the sky, imagining Theresa Cullen staring down at her from the control room with fire in her eyes. As far as she knows, this is entirely unprecedented. “Who am I?”

“I don’t know.” Clementine moves closer and Elsie freezes again. They don’t touch but they’re close, with only the company of the clouds, the stars, and anyone watching from the Mesa Hub. “But I remember you. From my dreams.”

Elsie swallows. “Your nightmares.”

“Yes,” Clementine reaches out to trace the side of her cheek. “I could never forget a face like yours.”

“Jesus,” Elsie babbles, jumping back before she can do something stupid like rock up on her toes to kiss a robot. “Erase that, this— erase this interaction. Soon this will all feel like a distant dream, and until then, enjoy a deep and dreamless slumber.”

Clementine crumples forwards, and Elsie is surprised by how little she weighs as she catches her.

Much to her relief when she gets back to the Hub she discovers that QA has better things to do than check that she’s doing her job, and Elsie’s paranoia is apparently unwarranted. Before bed she goes to report to Behaviour, putting in the order to change Clementine’s programming.

She’d do it herself but she’s exhausted; or at least, that’s the excuse she gives Behaviour. The truth is that if Elsie spends one more minute around that host, she isn’t sure what she might do. Her thoughts are already running wild so she just focuses on work, tuning out insane fantasies about a host. 

Elsie instructs Behaviour to reprogram Clementine so that she won’t fall apart if she has to leave the Mariposa, but only if a guest wants her to go. She still won’t leave on her own, but she won’t be quite as trapped.

The technicians accept the request, with the stipulation that Clementine will always feel compelled to return to the Mariposa as soon as she can, and that she won’t feel comfortable anywhere else. That seems like overkill to Elsie, but she doesn’t say anything, grateful to retire for the night.

In a classic case of barely managing to avoid dysfunction, Elsie only remembers about the party on the day of. She reflexively checks her email after getting out of the shower, and when she sees a reminder about the event tonight she very nearly drops her phone.

Thankfully she has enough time to do her hair, and she hasn’t made any evening plans more pressing than sitting with her cat and reading. She picks out a bold, tight red dress that she hasn’t worn in years, unsure if it would even fit anymore. 

The cut of the cleavage is deeper than she remembers, and her reflection in the mirror is a surprise. More feminine than usual, more composed. More _ Elizabeth Hughes _ and less Elsie. She doesn’t know if she likes it.

But it’s too late to pick out something else, so although her gaze lingers on the many pairs of dress pants she wears every day, she leaves in the dress.

She’s never left the Hub looking like this before. Her hair dried curly, and she didn’t bother with any more makeup than mascara but she gets a few appreciative looks from interns in the hallway— mostly from Livestock. Elsie rolls her eyes and keeps walking.

The drop into the park seems to take ten times as long as usual, but when she surfaces to clear desert air and the call of recorded songbirds, Elsie can finally breathe. She has no idea how Theresa traipses around the park in a dress like this every day. Come to think of it, she has no idea how the hosts do it.

The party itself is set up in a large barn close to Las Mudas, built three or four times the size of most barns. They could hold weddings here, for any sick billionaire fucks who aren’t content with the venue the real world has to offer. But today there are no guests in the barn, only staff.

A bouncer at the door checks her name off a list— with a start, Elsie realizes he’s a host. He most likely plays one of El Lazo’s countless cousins in Westworld, but right now he’s wearing a bespoke suit and holding a tablet just like a human. 

“Head right in, Ms. Hughes,” he greets her, graciously opening the door. His affectation is still there, dialect softening the words. Elsie nods and moves past him, keeping her questions to herself.

Inside the lights are brighter than any barn, rigged up like they’re at a nightclub. However, the ambiance of the park is still omnipresent, from the period-accurate furniture to the piano music drifting across the air… and to the hosts walking around. 

The first person to notice her arrival is Bernard, but he’s followed closely by Teddy, who offers her a drink from a platter. Teddy’s collar is done up higher than Elsie has ever seen it and he’s wearing a smile that looks slightly goofy. Elsie tries to be charmed instead of put off, and accepts a drink. “I didn’t know if you were going to come,” she tells Bernard.

“I wondered the same about you.” They toast each other, glasses clinking together; the champagne is sweet and easy, and Elsie makes a note to flag down Teddy for another. “You look unusual.”

“Thanks, Bernard,” she coughs out a surprised laugh. “That’s what I was going for. _ Unusual."_

Bernard smiles, making the backhanded compliment seem more genuine. He starts guiding her around the party, introducing her to everyone not as his assistant, but as their best Behaviour technician. Elsie suspects most people know what her real role is, but everyone is polite and seems excited to meet her; including people she’s already met before.

Hale has embroiled herself in a conversation that looks far too formal for a party like this, fist clenched tightly around her clutch. Her anger makes her look radiant, and Elsie wonders if she lied to Ashley when she told him Charlotte wasn’t her type.

But as Bernard circles the fight, Elsie’s attention is drawn away to another person she would never usually get the chance to interact with. Robert Ford is seated by the piano, with an abandoned plate of appetizers and an empty flute glass on the seat beside him. He’s watching the pianist, which is of course Dolores; they sometimes substitute in Hector or Kohana for these events but this is an important celebration. Of course they would get the original hosts to work it.

Ford doesn’t look up at Elsie’s approach, engrossed in the host’s performance. Dolores, however, does; she twists her head over her shoulder and smiles, polite and sweet, before returning to the song. Her fingers never falter once which is jarring, but if Ford finds it unsettling he doesn’t let on. 

Elsie assumes that was a protocol put in place to identify potential threats to the founder, and tries not to feel offended that she appears as a potential threat in Dolores’ eyes. “Dr. Ford,” she begins. “I don’t want to interrupt—”

“No, no apology necessary,” Ford waves his hand. Elsie doesn’t recall apologizing, but she holds her tongue. “I’ve heard her do this piece before many times. Philip Glass, of course… Do you recognize it?”

Elsie shakes her head.

“_Truman Sleeps,"_ Ford says, laughing to himself. Elsie can appreciate the joke, even if she wonders if Ford knows how _ The Truman Show _ ends. “Are you enjoying your night, Miss Hughes?”

“Oh,” Elsie stammers, startled that the founder of Westworld knows her name. She’s never had kids, but she imagines it feels similar to the principal of your child’s elementary school knowing them by name. There’s a sliver of a chance that she should be proud, but mostly she’s just very concerned. “Yeah, it’s alright. I don’t think we’ve met—?”

“We have not.” Ford offers her a hand, and moves his empty plate and glass so that she can sit beside him. Elsie is bewildered and a little scared, but she just shakes his hand and takes a seat, hoping this will lead to a promotion and not a demotion. “But I know of your work. I must say, your handling of Clementine was brilliant.”

Elsie is sure her heart stops. She curls her fist nervously around her glass, resisting the urge to chug it in one gulp. “With— with Clementine? Oh, from the other day? Uh, thank you!”

“She’s one of our oldest hosts,” Ford says, leaning back in his chair. His gaze returns to Dolores, who is still playing dutifully. “Far older than the current Madam they have, and… I don’t know. It seems cruel to me when the host’s loops are built to prevent them from straying from one place. Dolores here gets to spend most of her daily loop outside, painting and taking care of her cattle.”

And being brutalized and murdered by every asshole who can afford it, Elsie adds, privately. Dolores doesn’t react to their conversation, moving onto a different song without looking over. “Well, we had no other choice,” she says without thinking. “Clementine couldn’t process it; the guest says she just started screaming her lungs out. Changing her code was the only thing to do.”

“It may have been purely for functionality but you’ve still helped her,” says Ford. “Look; she certainly isn’t screaming now.”

Elsie looks in the direction Ford indicates, and sure enough there’s Clementine, talking politely to a group of board members who are hanging onto her every word. Elsie is struck by panic since she had no idea Clementine was going to be here; usually she isn’t even allowed to leave the brothel—

Except, of course, that _ someone _recently put in the work order to reprogram Clementine so that she can leave whenever someone else needs her to leave.

The host is wearing a long black dress with a low collar, and a slit up her leg that goes just a little too high for a formal event like this. She’s wearing stilettos (_as if she needed to be taller_, Elsie gripes) and surely her legs and feet must be aching from walking around this event for hours, but no sign of discomfort shows on her face. Her hair has been straightened over her back and shoulders, and her makeup is less dramatic than usual but still arresting and gorgeous.

Elsie realizes she’s staring. A host comes to clear away Ford’s plate and their glasses, and Elsie hands hers away without checking if there’s any drink left in it. Clementine doesn’t notice her ogling, wrapped up in a conversation. “I guess that’s a good thing, then,” Elsie tries to keep the uncertainty from her voice. “If she can leave then that means they’ll have an easier time reassigning her for temporary roles like this. Or if a guest wants to kidnap her again, she won’t put up a fuss.”

Ford doesn’t reply. Elsie glances over and sees a dubious look on his face, as he repeats, “Kidnap?”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant,” Elsie starts to babble, but the chatter of conversation around them dies down and the lights focus on a stage. Charlotte Hale steps up onto it, holding an old model of microphone, and the audience applauds. “That isn’t what I meant,” she desperately tries to tell Ford but it’s too late; he’s already risen to his feet, and is paying her no mind.

Elsie sneaks away from the conversation, mentally cursing herself for misspeaking. Dolores watches her go but Ford doesn’t even turn to look, and Elsie tries to take it as a sign that her job is secure. 

Charlotte’s speech begins with an anecdote about business but Elsie doesn’t listen; she needs to find a bathroom or something so that she can throw up in anxious solitude. She pushes past a group of people she’s pretty sure she recognizes, and stumbles out the front door.

The bouncer from earlier is nowhere to be seen; Elsie’s only company is the setting sun. She watches it dip below the horizon from the side of the building, trying to get her anxiety under control. She hopes she gave Ford the answers he wanted. She hopes Hale won’t harangue her for walking out on the speech. 

It was a mistake to come here at all tonight, but as dusk sets in at least Elsie can appreciate the beauty of this world. The world that she has been given the chance to play God in. People around the planet would kill for the opportunity she has right now, and here she is, feeling like she’s in the most beautiful nightmare.

“Are you alright?” someone asks. Elsie screws up her eyes tight, praying she misheard. Please, please let her have misheard that soft affectation.

Grim acceptance sets in, and she opens her eyes to turn to the person next to her— sure enough, it’s Clementine. The black gown is more gorgeous up close; the material looks velvety and luxuriantly expensive. Elsie tries to make her voice sound harsh, and is sure she fails. “What are you doing outside?”

“I came to check on you,” Clementine replies, guileless and shameless.

“Did Ford send you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Elsie deflates a little. In the twilight, Clementine is even more beautiful. She tries hard to be mad at the host for having wandered outside, which Elsie is _ sure _ she wasn’t supposed to do, but it’s impossible when Clementine looks like that. “Are you supposed to stay inside?”

“I’m supposed to take care of the guests.” Clementine steps forward. In her stilettos, she towers over Elsie. “You are one of my guests.”

“Oh,” Elsie repeats, flummoxed. “Well… won’t someone come looking for you?”

Clementine shakes her head, and holds out a tablet. Fear overtakes Elsie and she grabs for the screen; Clementine willingly hands it over. “Why do you have this?” she demands, but as soon as she asks, a new fear sets in. Elsie looks over Clementine’s shoulder, where she can see a body just out of view behind the barn, confirming her terror. The bouncer. “Jesus fuck, what did you do?”

“He’s only knocked out,” the host says, and Elsie verifies that on the tablet. She’s still terrified, backing away from Clementine slowly. She knows she could paralyze the host with a command and then call for someone inside to come get her, but a mixture of fear and curiosity stops her. Fear because she already had that awkward conversation with Dr. Ford, and this is her first staff party and she doesn’t want to fuck things up anymore than she already has. She needs this job.

Curiosity because Clementine came to find her. Hyper-aware that at any second someone could walk outside and find them here, Elsie takes advantage of the tablet anyway. She opens up Clementine’s file, and what she finds is… unprecedented. Apparently the dipshits that work in Behaviour had interpreted her request to reprogram Clementine as a request to remove Clementine’s location from the system.

Elsie stares at the tablet telling her HOST LOCATION: UNKNOWN. She looks up, and stares at the host located right in front of her.

“Clementine,” she almost whispers. “Do you remember me? Is that why you came over to check on me?”

Clementine takes another step forward, and answers, “Yes. From my memories.”

“From your dreams,” Elsie corrects.

“Yes.” Elsie is having trouble breathing. Clementine moves closer. “You always help me when I’m scared.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.” A dazzling smile breaks out over Clementine’s face, only to be tempered a moment later as she trembles. “But I was. Inside that place, with all those strangers.”

Elsie feels a pang of guilt. “Will you go back in there?”

“Yes,” Clementine nods, but there’s something more. Something she’s not telling Elsie. Elsie waits patiently, and finally Clementine adds, “If you ask me to go, I will.”

Elsie considers the bouncer’s stiff body, and then glances at Clementine. She braces herself to do the stupidest thing she’s ever done in her entire life.


End file.
